The clarion. [volume] (Jackson, Miss.) 1883-1888, 1887-01-05

For the first time, CLARK learned the
sufferings, the passionate love, that had
sent his young wife in search of him,
her struggles, her despair. Then his
own naughty reserve gave way; he laid
open his whole heart before her, its his
tory aud its anguish. He told her of his
wanderings, of the deep and narrowing
love which not even the belief in her
faithlessness could wiring from his heart;
he told her all, and then these proud be-
ings sat again, side by side, looking in
each others faces, and yet separated, oh,
how irrevoeably!
Then came the time for parting. Zu-
lima must 90 back to her home-where
could he seek shelter from the grief of
that terrible moment?
They both arose, and face to face,
stood gazing ON each other for the last
time; neither of them doubted that it
was for the last time, on this side of the
grave, A look of mournful desponden-
CIV was on their features, their hands
were clasped for an instant, and then
Zulima turned away, and tottering fee
bly, in her walk, passed from the garden.
He stood watching her till the last hut-
ter of her garments disappeared under
the orange boughs, then he turned away
and went forth, broken-hearted man.
Mother and father both went away,
leaving the child alone. Terrified by
the scene of anguish passing before her,
the little creature had neither moved
nor spoken, and in the agony of that
last parting, she was forgotten. She
had no heart to play then. The fish
turned up their golden sides in vain,
the humming birds flashed by her
quite UNDECIDED; she was gazing after
her father, and her eyes were full of
tears.
All at once, she saw him coming back,
walking rapidly; tears were in his eyes
also, and taking her to his bosom, he
kissed her forehead, her hair, and ler
little hands. Myra began to sob pite
ously. She could feel the swelling of
his heart against her form; the hot fe-
yer of his lips as they touched her fore
head, made her tremble, and cling closer
to him; il seemed as If the little crea-
ture knew that this was the last time
that noble heart would ever eat against
hsrs-as if she felt in her whole being
that he was her father. Thus, after a
brief struggle, the parent and child
parted, and forever.
That night Daniel Clark spent under
the roof OF his friend, Ross, the very
roof that had sheltered his bridal life
with Zulima and the birth of her child.
He met his false friend calmly, and
without an outbreak of the terrible
sense of wrong that ached at his heart.
He said truly, that reproaches are for
slight wrongs, only his were too mighty
for words. He never once limited to the
traitor that he was aware of his treach-
cry. Perhaps the footsteps of coming
death were pressing too heavily upon
him, even then, for ne whispered to his
heart more than once that day, "Ven
geance is mine, saith the Lord, and
will repay it."
There was no vengeance in Daniel
Clark's thoughts; for death was there
already, and he felt that the little time
given him on earth would scarcely be
sufficient to right the wronged.
In the very chamber where Zulima
had sat, amid the storm, writing her
last soul-touching letter to her husband,
| was that husband at midnight, writing
eagerly as she had been, His face was
deathly pale one minute, and the next
there spread over it warm red hue,
that seemed burning hotly through the
| flesh. He wrote on, sheet after sheet,
! linking the pages together as he COM
pleted them. with black ribbon; and,
Notwithstanding the anguish that shook,
and the fever that burned him, the
writing, as it flowed from his pen, was
| firm and even as print.
Toward daylight the document was
finished. Two black seals were placed
at the last page, then the whole was
folded up and carefully sealed. Weary
and haggard was Daniel Clark as he
arose from his task; the bed stood in a
corner of the chamber, cool ard invit-
ing, but he approached it not. With a
heavy and wavering step, he reached
the open window, and folding his arms
upon the sill, turned his face to the soft
night-air, with faint groan, and thus
he remained till morning.
The next day, Daniel Clark rode into
the city, and was closeted with several
of his old and intimate friends. In the
honse of one of these friends the others
met by appointment, and there Daniel
Clark read his last will and testament,
making his child, Myra Clark, the heir
ess to his vast possessions, and there he
soemnly declared his marriage with Zu-
lima, that child's mother. After this he
sat down in the presence of his friends
and chosen executors, and placed his sig
nature to the will that his own hands
had written.
When MIR. Clark had left them that
day, his friends observed that the hand
with which be elasped theirs was burn
ing, and that his eyes looked heavy and
swollen. They remarked, too, that he
had never once smiled during the whole
interview but the occasion was a solemn
one, and so they merely gave these
things passing thought, deeming them
but the result of some undue excite
ment.
At nightfall Mr.. Clark reached the
dwelling of Ross 1t had been Zulima's
residence, and he yeafDed to lie down
in the room that she bad occupied, and
to press the same pillow that she had
wept upon. All the deep tenderness Of
his early love for that wEonged woman
came back to him with a knowledge oi
her blamelessness.
Pride, the great sin of his nature, hao
been prostrated with the knowledge tina
he, with all his naughty self-reliance
all his splendor of intellect, had beer
influenced by base and ungratefnl mer
to wrong the being dearest to him il
life.
All the manifestation of displeasur,
that he displayed toward Ross was de
sire to avoid his presence, but even tha
awoke the eyer-yigilant suspicion of tn,
man.
I He had placed menial spies on tn
stems of Zulima but in hunting dow
the sterner game Ross played the sp,
himself. The plantation which Ros
occupied was the property of his patron
and in the dwelling Mr.. Clark ha,
always kept his own separate apart
ments.
On returning home that night he en-
tered little library belonging to thes
! apartments, and opening an escritoir
had taken from thence an ebony box
in which were his most valuable papers
After placing the will therein he ha,
carefully locked the escritoire and tn
room before retiring to his chamber 70
the night.
At two o'clock the next morning ther
shown in this library faint light. B.
the escritoire stood Ross slowly irving
| kew in the lock, and behind him upon
table rested dark lantern, 50 place,
that all its rays fell in one direction
! leaving most of the room in dark
| ness
II Noislessly the key was turned, an
|. without q sound was the escrioir
opened, and the ebony box dragge
! forth.
The will was the first paper that prt
sented itself on opening the box. Ros
! took it up, seated himself in Mr.. Clark
! easy chair, and began to read ;nervousl
! glancing over the pages, and startin
I from time fo time If the sIichtest souu